


Graven on Stone.

by hennethgalad



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Music, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29789265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Daeron devises the Cirth.Day 1: Music.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month (B2MEM) 2021





	Graven on Stone.

There was no other, he must play the flute part himself, therefore another must be found to conduct. Yet it was his own piece, his longest, most elaborate composition, he knew just where the emphasis must be, and just where the harps must soften and fade.  
Of course her name had come first to his mind, she had earned the name Maerwen, indeed! And when, without prompting, he had asked his fellow musicians who could represent him, who could conduct as he himself would, they had spoken her name without hesitation.  
He looked at her tight shoulders, she was exhausted, he had kept her working as the Enemy would work an orc, he was a disgrace to music, to Music! which must flow as the gentle waters, not be forced as through a narrow pipe.  
"Maerwen, my poor friend, you are wearied, yes, you must rest, and so must I! The music will await us, when we return refreshed. The hunters ride forth, go you with them, I know that you wish it!"  
Her face smiled, but her shoulders were taut still "Are you sure? You know that I still struggle with the change of mode in the fifth chorus."  
Daeron sighed, it was that very change that had kept them bent so long over their instruments; he waved his hands again, as though to show her, once and for all, how to gesture to the ranks of musicians, how to indicate the subtle...

The inspiration came to him all at once, like the sound of Valaróma, or the lighting of a thousand lanterns. He could draw the shapes, on a parchment, and when they rested after the hunt, Maerwen could study it at her own pace, until it came to her as simply as breathing. "Wait! Wait!" He cried, "see now!"  
And on the back of a design he had been working on, he sketched a few lines "Now this is the first chorus, and here" he sketched another shape "this is the second" and the patterns of the strokes of his arms showed forth on the parchment, brought to life with the charcoal.  
"Oh! I see it! I see it! You have not drawn the conductor, you have drawn the movement of the arms! That is marvellous, Daeron!"  
"Wait, I shall finish the changes" he scribbled hastily, eagerly, it was like picking up a new instrument and finding the notes to be the same, as the notes always were, for the music flows through all, as simply as the wind in the trees, as simply as the rhythm of the heart. "There, you see, this is that change you find so difficult, do you but practice after the hunt, and when you return, well, all will be clear."  
Her smile was a reward, but her shining eyes were a treasure that warmed his heart "Daeron, you are a marvel! I shall practice until the hunters are singing, without knowing why they sing!" She laughed, and her laughter resonated with his spirit and he laughed along, and knew that the hunters would indeed sing, did she but give the note. 

When Maerwen had gone, he felt that a strong wind had blown through the music room, the very harp strings seemed to quiver in her wake. Daeron wondered if he could come to love her, and then, more wistfully, if she could come to love him. He shook his head, the mere act of working so closely with each other was not enough. Maerwen had her own friends, the young, who flocked together in whatever whim drove them, while he laboured alone at his compositions... He stopped then, staring into the flame of a lantern, his mind awhirl... He dared not move, or speak, lest the spell break, but the sketches he had drawn, what if he could capture more than just the conductor's changes, what if he could capture the music itself, what if he could mark every note, every change...  
He sank to his knees, overwhelmed, already exhausted, such notions were for another time; he must rest, he must eat, and take his ease, he must to the Hall of Fire, to unleash his spirit and set it free to drift on the soaring song of the mighty singers of Menegroth.

  
Daeron awoke from a dream of charcoal figures, like elves made of twigs, marching and at times dancing before his bewildered mind. But Thingol himself stood before him, and Daeron leapt to his feet.  
"Sire! My lord, I beg your pardon! I was overcome with weariness!"  
"Daeron, my old friend, there is nothing to forgive. Do you walk with me, I have tidings..."  
There was a silence around them, all eyes looked their way, none sang, and only the crackle of the fire and a faint ripple from the harp disturbed the stillness. Daeron felt fear, but could imagine no cause that would concern him. His family was long gone, over the sea in the path of Ingwë and the rest, but Thingol walked out into the starlight and the gentle sigh of the soft air in the trees.

"Maerwen the musician is slain." Thingol had a hand ready, and supported Daeron as he swayed "The hunt found the beast they sought, a great hornéd buck, but the dam was close by, with a near-grown litter, and some of our folk were injured, Maerwen bled to death before aught could be done. It was a dreadful sight, they say, more blood, of elf and beast alike, than any of those young elves had ever seen, and poor Maerwen...   
I know that you were not merely fellow musicians but close friends, and I feel great anguish for your loss."

Daeron stood as still as stone, willing the past to be otherwise, and all his excitement at the new form of marking music onto parchment turned to ash and blew away in the howling of his grief, until he felt himself hollowed, like the flute, a mere vessel for the screaming of the Enemy.   
But Thingol was beside him, one hand warm on his shoulder as though to hold him to earth, to his flesh, to life. But stillness grew within Daeron, and all the music that Maerwen would never make floated up around him, like the starlight to one drowning in deep water. At last the tears came, and Melian the Maia was there with miruvor, and they eased Daeron into a seat, and he drank and at last took a great shuddering breath.

And as if he had known all along that that was what he would do, he looked up into the sad wise eyes of the Maia "Her grave! I shall mark her grave. She... we... there were... we..." but the tears overflowed and silenced him, and the very nightingales were stilled, settling on branch and railing, and on the shoulders of the silent Melian. 


End file.
